


I am drinking beer with yellow flowers in underground sunlight

by Grantairesatellite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Activism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Grantaire, BAMF marius, Café Musain, F/M, Friendship, Gun Violence, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, London, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poetry, Protests, Revolution, Suicidal Thoughts, This will get violent, Violence, and sad, but I've tried to make it kind of funny??, but maybe he'll learn, enjolras is a dick, marius and grantaire friendship, obscure evil governement- maybe I'll worldbuild later??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:02:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grantairesatellite/pseuds/Grantairesatellite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan is missing. Enjolras is desperate. Grantaire is in love. Les Amis try to spark a revolution in a semi-dystopian present where nothing goes their way.</p><p>In which the barricades have always been with them, and peace is rarely an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I am drinking beer with yellow flowers in underground sunlight

Grantaire sat in the corner of the Musain, where the sunlight from the windows didn’t quite reach. The other members of the group that were known as Les Amis de l’ABC, worked steadily on the tables which had been pushed together in the center of the room. At the head of this mass was Enjolras, not watching the proceedings but rather haphazardly cutting up old sheets into strips. In fact, everyone in the room was intently focused on their various tasks, all apart from Grantaire, their only viewer. 

Bahorel and Marius, who had been late to the meeting as usual, were lying on the floor painting signs. Grantaire had refused to do the ‘one thing he was good at’, as Enjolras had called it, and so the latecomers were delegated this laborious task.

Enjolras didn’t even look at Grantaire, he hadn’t since deciding that the drunk had nothing more to offer. It was true, Grantaire thought to himself, but his reason for not participating was not laziness as Enjolras believed. This was not a fight they could win, though admittedly Grantaire believed most fights unwinnable,  and he would not take part in what would surely be a failure. After all, why set yourself up to lose? 

He had told Enjolras what he thought, and as usual this had resulted in an argument. 

Enjolras knew Grantaire was right, at least subconsciously, but what he abhorred was a lack of motivation to even try. For the leader of the amis it was not about victory, though that was of course their long term goal, it was all about letting the oppressed know that they weren’t alone and abandoned. 

Grantaire, feeling alone and abandoned himself, did not care for false hope and friendship.

‘Grantaire for fucks sake paint with us. My arm’s killing and I’m writing wonky’ 

Bahorel was ignored in favour of a dirt-cheap bottle of wine, Grantaire hadn’t gotten many commissions that month. 

Marius looked up at Bahorel with a small grimace before backing him up. ‘Mate come on you know you can do it better than us. Um, Grantaire how do you mark cardboard? I’m meant to use charcoal right?’ 

‘Use whatever you want’. Grantaire didn’t look up. However Feuilly, who was helping Enjolras with cutting linen, did. 

‘Don’t you worry guys, I’ll help. I brought my best tipex and everything, so I’m pretty prepped.’

Grantaire downed the rest of the almost empty bottle and got up, albeit a little unsteadily, and walked over to Marius and Bahorel, who had immediately looked back down to the signs smiling. 

‘Okay so you two, in the nicest way possible, fuck off. Feuilly you do art so you can shut up and hand me the poster paint I know you brought.’ With that he sat down, cross legged and began covering the mess of Bahorel and Marius’ signs with thick, white paint. 

Marius and Bahorel high fived behind their backs and joined Bousset and Joly in making leaflets.

Enjolras hadn’t once looked up at the proceedings around him, however with Feuilly now helping Grantaire he called over Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

‘‘Ferre do you have the med kit ready for Joly? And the whistles? And…’

Corfeyrac put a sudden finger to Enjolras’ lips, startling him. ‘Yes and yes, and to whatever you were going to say next, yes. Look chill out, tomorrow will be fine’.

‘Can you please take this seriously?’ Enjolras said exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I will not have another fuck up like last time.’

‘It wasn’t a fuck up Enj, sure it could have gone smoother but I think we got the message across.’ Combeferre tried to reassure him to no avail. ‘It  was a fuck up. Bahorel broke his arm and Joly passed out so he couldn’t help until later.’  

Courfeyrac looked around the room before swivelling in his chair a little to directly face Enjolras ‘It’ll be fine this time. Look, we’ve spent the last week preparing, even R’s on board.’

‘All he’s doing is painting the signs and it took a lot of persuading.’ Enjolras looked at Grantaire for the first time since the start of the evening.

Grantaire was indeed helping, he’d already finished one sign and was moving on to the next silently, only occasionally looking up to check Feuilly was doing the same as him. 

‘Well he’s still doing it isn’t he, stop moaning. Maybe you should ask him to do something else.’

‘He’s an artist, what else can he even do?’

Courfeyrac  shared a quick look with Combeferre and continued ‘Maybe you should ask him that too. But I bet it can’t be fun only painting signs. I mean Gavroche could do that.’

‘Where is he by the way?’ Combeferre looked around noticing that neither the boy nor his older sister, Eponine, was at the meeting. 

Enjolras shook his head and Courfeyrac shrugged and stood up. ‘I’m gonna finish up the ads. But I’ll be back if you don’t ask him to do anything. Seriously look at that little face’ Courfeyrac made a tear wiping motion on his face before walking back to his station. Combeferre smirked, ‘anything else?’.

‘Uh, yeah make sure Eponine doesn’t take Gavroche if she wants to come tomorrow. And make sure she comes to see me before so I can make sure she’ll be safe. Like I said, no more fuck ups’. 

‘No more fuck ups’ Combeferre nodded and sat down, going over tomorrow's speeches again. 

Enjolras continued his work for another half hour, during which Musichetta had joined the ranks due to her shift at the cafe being over. She had come in, thrown her apron to the ground, kicked it to the corner, and proceeded to give Grantaire the danish pastry she had in her bag. 

‘How come we don’t get any? We’re your boyfriends?’ Joly complained, only for Musichetta to give him an silencing look over her shoulder.

‘Because a, Grantaire gave me a tip when I gave him a coffee this morning, something you two never do-’

‘But we live together you’d just spend it on our flat anyway-’

‘Not the point. And b, he needs to eat’.

Grantaire smiled, and muttered a quick ‘thanks mum’ before eating with one hand and painting with the other.

Musichetta watched to make sure he ate it all, before joining Joly and Bousset and whispering something in their ear. Joly looked over at Grantaire, who was painting with his back facing everyone but Feuilly, and nodded.

Enjolras had run out of things to do. He’d cut all the linen he needed to and everyone else was happily getting on with their tasks. He wanted to go home and sleep or maybe just sit and think about tomorrow but he couldn’t. The thought of talking to Grantaire was like a ringing in his ears, he couldn’t get rid of it. He had thought of a job for Grantaire at the protest tomorrow, one he was reasonably certain he could do, but couldn’t quite ask him. It seemed too personal, too  much.  Grantaire was barely in the group, just touching the fringes of the outer circle. But tomorrow Enjolras couldn’t afford to take risks, and he certainly didn’t want another broken bone for Bahorel. 

Eventually, when Feuilly was walking to the bathrooms to refill the pot of water, Enjolras walked over to Grantaire. 

He sat in the spot where Feuilly had been moments before, opposite Grantaire, in an uncomfortable crouched position. 

‘The signs look good. Thanks for deciding to do them.’

‘Yeah well you wanted them done so…’ Grantaire’s reply trailed off.

‘Well thanks anyway. But I was wondering if you could maybe do another job tomorrow?’

Grantaire looked up.

‘Well, last time, you know, Bahorel broke his arm and anyway, I was wondering if you’d help out as a sort of bodyguard tomorrow? I mean I get it if you say no, it's kind of dangerous and-’

‘Sure.’ Grantaire’s eyes had lit up suddenly and he looked up at Enjolras with an strange look on his face.

‘Are you sure? Because you don’t have to on my account’

‘I will.’ Grantaire blinked suddenly and looked down ‘Someone has to make sure not a single strand of gold on your head his harmed, right? Our fearless Apollo must be safe to lead us to victory. In the fiery heat of battle I shall protect you until death my most gracious god an-’

‘You don’t have to do that. I get it, thanks. Come early I have some makeshift body protection’. With that Enjolras walked away, of course Grantaire would end any civil conversation into a mocking rant. He went to the bathroom to brief Feuilly, leaving Grantaire on the floor.

Grantaire sat there staring at the floor, he twirled the paint brush around between his fingers as he thought, not noticing the black marks it left behind.


	2. It was a mistake in terminology  for silence came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire tries, Enjolras is a dick, and Marius' heart breaks a little.
> 
> Title again from Al Purdy's 'At the Quinte hotel'

Enjolras came back with Feuilly and everyone got back to their work until one am, when Enjolras finally decided that they needed sleep. One by one they all left the Musain until only Enjolras, Grantaire, and Marius were left. Grantaire wanted to add his finishing touches to the signs, which looked more like fine art at this point than the simple slogans Enjolras asked for. Enjolras himself was just re-reading his speeches, finding himself almost unable to leave, it was only Marius’ begging, as he was getting a lift home with him, which finally tore him away. 

Enjolras collected his jacket and satchel, leaving everything behind on the tables as they were returning in the morning to get ready anyway. Marius stood impatiently in the doorway, glaring at Enjolras who was taking his time about getting ready to go. He was just about to say something when Grantaire got up and walked over to Enjolras, hands in pockets. 

‘Look, um… what I said earlier, don’t take it seriously. Don’t take anything I say seriously to be honest, er, you don’t have to worry about me I’ll help tomorrow’

‘I don’t take you seriously anyway. But thank you, I know this isn’t something you particularly believe in and I- thank you.’ 

‘It’s not that I don’t believe in it, I just-’ Grantaire was cut off.

‘You don’t believe in anything.’ Enjolras’ statement was cold, and more and immediately after he’d said it he realised this.

‘I do. I believe in-’ Once again, ENjolras finished Grantaire’s sentence.

‘Wine? Women? Food? I appreciate the help Grantaire, but don’t pretend there’s any real reason you’re here’ Enjolras didn’t know why he was so annoyed, but all of a sudden he felt as if Grantaire was lying to him. He didn’t believe in anything, and he couldn’t try to make himself seem better now by pretending.

Marius was standing at the doorway, facing Enjolras with a grimace on his face. While Grantaire looked at the floor momentarily, Marius stared at Enjolras and violently shook his head. Enjolras, as usual, didn’t receive the signal. He was perceptive in many things, just not the things closest to him.

‘I believe in something. I believe in you’

‘Excuse me?’ Enjolras’ face had taken on an incredulous look which it had never worn before. If Marius hadn’t been so pissed off at Enjolras himself he would have laughed. Enjolras was charming, kind, cold, angry- but never incredulous. 

‘I may think this will fail, that we can’t stop the mountains and fucking mountains of shit in this world. But if anyone can, you can.’ Grantaire’s face was lit up as it had been earlier, and there was a fervency that illuminated his eyes like a painting. 

‘Don’t mock me, Grantaire’. Enjolras features had changed suddenly to marble, and his voice had become harsher.

Grantaire’s face fell ‘I- I’m not. I’m not’ Marius watched on with horror, he wanted to say something but was almost frozen. 

‘No. You will come tomorrow, and you will help. Because we need you to. But I think you should leave the group. You can’t just lie, and mock my cause, and me. This is the last time. Live your life Grantaire, just not here. Not with us.’

All these months Grantaire had been making fun of Enjolras and his causes, he didn’t know why, but Grantaire’s fake sincerity made him more angry than anything else he’d done. It was crueller, he thought, to lie rather than joke. 

Grantaire tried to say something to explain, to show how much he thought of Enjolras, but he couldn’t. ‘Okay’.

‘Okay’ and with that, Enjolras left the Musain, brushing past Marius on the way.

Grantaire stood in the same position, looking at the space where Enjolras had stood. His mouth closed into a bitter smile and he walked back to the signs and continued painting, making sure to grab the bottle of wine off the table on his way.

As if unfrozen, Marius who had been forgotten, walked over to Grantaire and sat down next to him on the floor. ‘He’s just angry. And tired. It’s not an excuse for what he said but don't take him seriously. He doesn’t mean it, you’ll see.’

Grantaire sniffed.

‘No, you’ll see. Besides none of us would let you leave. You’re our friend, and I know what you meant, even if that prick didn’t’

‘He’s not a prick. He- he’s right. I should go. You don’t need me here, I don’t have any real reason, like he said. I’m fucking useless.’

Marius, who was terrible at being comforting, just sat quietly. After a while, when Grantaire had dropped the paintbrush dejectedly, he reached for the other man’s hand and squeezed it.

‘I think I love him.’ For the first time Grantaire looked up from the floor and up at Marius. His eyes were red-rimmed, although it didn’t look like there were tears. He wore a watery attempt at a smile, but Marius instantly felt a sharp pang in his chest. 

Marius smiled at him. ‘I know. It’ll be okay.’

They spent the whole night sitting on the floor of the Musain, Grantaire drinking, and Marius sitting quietly with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I wrote this in one sitting without a beta because when you feel productive, why not?  
> I feel like i'm getting slightly better at writing dialogue but who knows.  
> Also I like writng angst, awful i know, but it'll get better don't worry!   
> Fluff to come!  
> Also I really like marius and grantaire's relationship sometimes.


	3. the demonstrable effect of great Art and the brotherhood of people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like an inbetween chapter. I wasn't totally happy with it which is why it's taken so long. Anyway, please enjoy and let me know in the comments- they are my sustenance.

It was three am and Enjolras was still not asleep. Which was ridiculous because tomorrow was a huge day, and one that he would need to be alert for. He’d gotten home at half one, after driving up and down his road a few times, to calm him down. He’d really fucked up this time. He didn’t understand why Grantaire did the things he did, and it had hurt when he’d purposefully made fun of well, everything. But still. He’d been too harsh, he’d been stressed and tired and- it was no excuse at all. Tomorrow would change things, he hoped. Grantaire was involved, he was helping. He was Enjolras’ fucking bodyguard. It would be okay, tomorrow would be okay. Grantaire would be okay. He kept repeating reassurances to himself until he eventually fell asleep at his desk, surrounded by newspapers and half-drafted speeches, hoping to God that everything would just be okay.

It was Winter, and so it was still dark at six am. Marius was leaning against the wall, asleep, covered in the various cushions and throws Grantaire had found in the Musain. Grantaire, on the other hand was drinking tea straight out of a pot, strong to the point of bitterness and far too much sugar, as usual. He hadn’t slept more than half an hour and had spent most of the night painting. He’d taken the spare cardboard and taped it all together to form a huge canvas and had spent the night painting to remind everyone.The painting, or rather portrait was intense and ethereal. With Jehan seeming to fade in and out of a misty background. It was rushed, and Grantaire was critical, but it was him. Bruises melted with violets on his neck and cheek. Calla lilies were splayed, as if thrown, on Jehan’s chest in true morbid poetic fashion. Words of poetry, like chains, twisted around the man and red paint dripped and splattered over the portrait. 

Grantaire stared at the painting as if it was the first time he’d seen it. The night had been a haze of alcohol and heartbreak, for Jehan, himself, Enjolras. He missed the young poet so much Grantaire thought sometimes that it would kill him. There was constant worry in his gut, but whether that was worry that Jehan was alive or dead, Grantaire did not know. If Jehan was alive then he was likely being tortured for information, it was selfish of Grantaire to want him alive. If he was dead then he wasn’t in pain, he was free, that’s what Grantaire thought, though his view of death was probably biased. Jehan was a survivor, not like Grantaire. 

Leaving his tea on the table, he lay down beside the painting, like he had with Jehan so many times before. They had lain on grass, anywhere that wasn’t tar and concrete(which was most place in this part of the city), staring at the stars when they were both at their lowest. Jehan hadn’t known any constellations, and neither had Grantaire but like a true artist he would form the pictures. Like a true poet, Jehan would create the stories behind them and tell them to Grantaire. Grantaire hadn’t looked up at the stars properly since Jehan had been taken, he was too scared that he’d see absolutely nothing, that all the pictures and stories would be gone. His friends were celestial, and he was the empty space between them. Whilst not his first friend in the group, or even his ‘best’- that title would go to Bousset and Joly, Jehan had understood him. He missed his friend.

The others weren’t coming until seven so Grantaire closed his eyes, trying to dream of constellations and poetry.

He awoke an hour later when he heard the door being opened. Grantaire had dreamt of nothing. Marius had moved, and the talking which started in the front room suggested that he had gone to let someone in. Vaguely thinking about getting up to compose himself, Grantaire decided to just feign sleep, he wasn’t quite ready for the rest of the day just yet. Marius and the other person walked into the back room. ‘Oh’. It was Courfeyrac. 

‘Yeah. He must have painted him while I was asleep. I think it’s to use instead of the signs.’

‘It’s accurate.’ Courfeyrac’s voice cracked a little and Grantaire realised he’d been cruel. Courfeyrac missed Jehan even more than Grantaire, and he probably didn’t want to see Grantaire’s morbid, bloody portrayal.

‘Have you talked to Enjolras?’ 

‘I did yesterday. He made Grantaire his bodyguard for today, along with Bahorel’

‘He did a lot more than that’ Grantaire could hear Marius’ voice hardening. ‘Talk to him. Ask him why he’s such a self-centered, fucking prick-’

‘Jesus. What did he do? I assume whatever he did answers why half the bar was cleared last night’. Grantaire couldn’t see but he felt that Courfeyrac was motioning towards him. 

‘Ask him.’ Marius’ voice had softened slightly but it was still too angry, anger didn’t suit Marius. There was a tap on the door and both men went to answer it. While the second person to arrive was let in, Grantaire pretended to wake up. He had a splitting headache though not, he imagined, from a hangover as he was still slightly drunk, but rather from the lack of sleep. 

‘Morning!’ Combeferre had arrived, he must have been parking the car for Courfeyrac. He was holding a few papers and dumped them on the table in the back room. ‘Marius you look like shit, did you not get dressed last night?’

‘I didn’t go home last night’. 

Grantaire got up, leaning his weight on one thigh as he stood. Pretending to stretch, he walked over to the other three men. ‘Sorry.’ 

‘You’re not the one who stormed out and forgot to give me a lift. Besides I’m glad I was here, and it’s not like my clothes aren’t going to get crumpled today anyway.’ Marius turned to Combeferre ‘By the way, you should probably know Enjolras is a prat and I think the both of you should talk to him’.

Grantaire hadn’t ever seen this side of Marius, but he supposed it must have always been there, why be a revolutionary if you didn’t give a shit? If you weren’t angry? Grantaire winced internally, he was starting to think like Enjolras. 

‘Don’t bother. We need his mind on today, or at least wait until our imminent doom isn’t around the corner’. He smiled a little, good old cynical Grantaire, nothing was wrong with him. 

The other three didn’t look wholly convinced but changed the subject to the day’s preparations. 

After a time, the rest of the Amis came in, Enjolras unusually being next to last, with only Eponine and Gavroche behind him. 

Everyone had seen the painting of Jehan and smiled at Grantaire, this had made them angry, had reminded them. It was what they needed. He had listened when Enjolras began listing what his bodyguards needed to do, though he had been speaking more to Bahorel than Grantaire. The two men didn’t acknowledge each other, or the night before. 

Grantaire wrapped his, and Bahorel’s hands, broken knuckles wouldn’t help them in a fight- he knew that from his boxing days. Then he shoved cardboard under his shirt, a makeshift vest that would help with the bare minimum of attacks. Though it was to be a peaceful protest, they knew their government and they would be prepared for the inevitable altercation. That was why Enjolras needed bodyguards, he hadn't wanted them- his life had as much value as anyone else's, but he needed them. Any guard with half a mind would go straight for the leader, and without the leader the rest would struggle. 

Enjolras was indispensable, Grantaire thought as he placed some goggles in his pocket (in case of tear gas). And he was Enjolras’ disposable cardboard vest.


	4. ugly red flowers on the tile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis go to the protest, led by Enjolras, and Grantaire thinks that maybe he has found something he could die for.

The crowd was suffocating, both in mass and sheer optimism. Trafalgar square was teeming with the hopeful, righteous anger of tens of thousands. There was a small, wooden stage set up and people were climbing the lions, the base of Nelson’s column to listen in to whoever the speaker was. The oppressive mass around the three: Bahorel, Enjolras, and Grantaire, was claustrophobic. The sun was starting to rise fully and despite the wind, the square was starting to heat up. Grantaire was glad Gavroche was with his sister, watching safely from the top of the stairs. One false step and a little kid like him would be trampled. And wouldn’t that give the protesters a bad name? 

 

Not that he was happy with the situation in the first place, Grantaire still noticed something off about the whole thing

‘Where are the guards?’

Bahorel shrugged, and gestured vaguely up the stairs where, indeed, a few guards were standing beside their prison vans- waiting for the protest to get out of hand.

‘No, there’s not enough. Something’s wrong.’ Grantaire protested but Enjolras and Bahorel were focused on reaching the stage. His pessimism wasn’t necessary, and maybe it was just pessimism, but Grantaire still couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was not quite right. He nervously fingered a corner of cardboard sticking out from under his shirt, tearing at it with his already-short nails. It would be okay. It was all going to be fine. 

 

By the time they had made it towards the stage, the previous speaker was just stepping off, a young nurse making a speech on the pay- or lack thereof- in the NHS. She was pretty, Grantaire thought, Marius would like her. Enjolras shook her hand and climbed up onto the stage. He adjusted the mic, pulling it about a foot higher than it had been for the nurse and without so much as clearing his throat, began. Grantaire was in awe, he always slightly was with Enjolras but hearing him speak, as pathetic as it made him sound, was godly. Enjolras was the perfect Roman orator, down to the pointless hand gestures that meant nothing to anyone but him. He could have been a lawyer if he wasn’t so busy trying to fix the world. The speech was simple but brutal. He talked about how the new government were effectively turning everything to shit, they were getting gradually worse and the majority didn’t even notice. That’s when he went into his stupid boiling frog analogy that Grantaire had already heard hundreds of times. He even talked about Jehan, poor Jehan who had been his friend and a poet. Jehan, who refused to back down. Handing his unedited poems out in the street to anyone who would take them. Jehan who didn’t have enough to eat but stopped selling his poems as soon as he found out they were being censored. Jehan who was knocked down in the street with a baton, and beaten. Taken, and no one knew where. Grantaire took in Enjolras’ words like he was knelt before a pulpit.

 

‘This is the government we live with. This is what is happening, day in, day out. Don’t believe the news, the papers, the radio. It is all lies. This is not the brave new world they present to us. We must all rise up if we expect anything to change.’ 

The crowd was furious, pumping their fists and continuing their chant from before. Enjolras made a closing statement, even chucking in a few ‘comrades’ in for good measure-model revolutionary that he was. His face was red and some spittle flew from his lips, strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat from the sheer exertion.  His eyes gleamed. Grantaire had never thought Enjolras looked so beautiful.

 

He could see his friends out in the crowd. Courfeyrac and Combeferre held the large portrait of Jehan together and everyone was looking at the painting when Enjolras spoke about the poet. Joly was walking on the fringes of the crowd with a first-aid kit, in case of the inevitable. Bousset and Musichetta were weaving through the crowd handing out leaflets. Grantaire wasn’t sure where Marius was but expected he’d be with Feuilly, probably asking people if they had a moment to talk about their lord and saviour Enjolras.

 

People were crowding even closer to the stage now, Grantaire could see some making a direct line towards them. He was broken out his basking by a familiar face in the crowd. It was the guard who had given Grantaire a warning a couple days before, something stupid like being too loud in the street whilst tipsy. He was wearing normal clothes. The twenty or so people who were coming straight for the stage were too- of course- but they all had the same expression. Determination and a twinge of anger. Not the righteous anger of the crowd but something different.

‘Shit. Enjolras we have to go.’ He pulled Enjolras, by the arm, toward the back of the stage. The guards were already nearing the stairs on the side. 

Enjolras looked confused, and mildly pissed off.

‘Hidden guards, I don’t know how many. We have to go now.’ Grantaire thanked all the Gods he didn’t believe in when Enjolras finally nodded in understanding. Bahorel, who had heard, followed. The stage was only a few feet high but even still Grantaire’s ankles jarred painfully as he jumped off. The three started running, they couldn’t go back up the stairs- there were too many guards that way. They’d just have to dodge the traffic and make it past the roundabout. Past that, he didn’t know.

 

They ran, pushing past the stream of protesters who had started rushing the stairs now they too realised what exactly was going on. Grantaire could hear fights breaking out behind him. They were just starting to near the edge of the square when he heard two shots fired. Fuck. 

The protest, which had started out peaceful, had become a full-blown riot. 

And Gavroche was on the stairs. 

‘Bahorel, go. Go find Eponine and Gavroche. We’ll be fine- just go’

‘Are you sure?’ Bahorel was hesitant, he looked behind him up at the stairs. The fighting seemed to be getting worse.

‘Okay,’ Bahorel replied. ‘Text me when you’re clear’ and he headed back into the crowd, punching someone on the way- hopefully a guard. 

 

Now alone, Enjolras and Grantaire continued pushing their way out the square. They ran, past the traffic, through alleyways and streets. Charing Cross had been their aim but realising that there would be too many waiting guards there, the two men started heading towards Embankment. 

It looked like they hadn’t been followed, that they were safe. The Thames loomed toward their left, and Grantaire was thankful to have his bearings again. He knew his way around London better than most but had hurried through the small side roads without fully grasping where he was. The Thames was a steadfast, it hopefully meant that they were in the clear. 

 

They slipped down a subway tunnel and made their way through. There was a busker playing the keyboard, something classic- he didn’t know. A family of tourists were walking through and gave the busker some money. 

The protest seemed a million miles away. 

 

It was almost peaceful, Grantaire thought. But as they passed an intersection in the tunnels they saw a guard in a neon yellow raincoat. There was a buzzing coming from his radio and as the guard brought it up to his ear he turned his head towards Enjolras and Grantaire. 

Fucking Enjolras and his fucking recognisable good looks. 

 

The guard gave the two a look of disdain and slowly pulled a gun from his side. Nothing but a warning, but even still this was further than a guard had ever gone before with Grantaire  _ or  _ Enjolras. Life had become a lot harder since the guards had been allowed to carry guns.

The guard’s voice was cool and measured, ‘Your protest is meaningless. Your friend was a criminal.’ 

 

‘He was a poet’. Grantaire shoved Enjolras towards the exit, signalling him to move, and punched the guard in the face. It was stupid, idiotic in fact, but despite the burning all the way up to his elbow, was fucking worth it. His knuckled killed and he was so grateful to past-Grantaire for bothering to wrap them. Hopefully they were just bruised. 

The guard staggered back only a step, just giving Grantaire a chance to run after Enjolras. 

A warning shot was fired, but Grantaire didn’t stop. He darted towards the exit and made it to Enjolras. Then they were running together. 

For a few moments, everything from the previous night was forgotten. They were on the run together and despite the tightness in his chest, and the sharp pang of the stitch developing in his side, Grantaire loved every second. 

 

Another warning shot, towards the sky, then another- not even a second after. 

It wasn’t a warning shot. Grantaire felt something- the bullet -obviously it must have been the bullet, brush past,through, _ into _ his ribs. He started to double over in shock but heard the steady beat of feet behind him.

Grantaire continued running- as best he could- after Enjolras. Things were starting to get hazy, and dark,  but Grantaire could still see Enjolras in front of him. Gold and red and red and gold and red and red and- shit. Grantaire blinked heavily and when he opened his eyes he was a few meters ahead of where he had just been. At least, he thought, his subconscious was doing all the work for him. 

Grantaire turned his head sharply. The guard was starting to slow down. That was when he notices how empty the streets were. Sure there were people, but not the usual density. They must have been at the protest, or hiding from it.

 

He turned his head back forward and Enjolras was gone. Grantaire hesitated and, still moving, almost stumbled, his momentum had been one of the few things keeping him upright. He turned down a side road blindly, fervently hoping Enjolras had had the same idea. He made his way down, slowing as he did so. His side was starting to hurt more fiercely and his legs lost all semblance of strength. 

Before he knew what was happening, he was pulled harshly into a public toilet. One of those cement ones from the 80s, Grantaire didn’t know that there had been any left not yet torn down. 

The source of his escape, he didn’t think the guard had seen him turn down the side road, was- of course- Enjolras.

 

‘What took you so long? He won’t look in here for us. It’s lucky isn’t it? I didn’t think any of these things were still up. Government negligence working in our favour! Who would have thought?’

Enjolras was rambling and, excited. It almost seemed a shame to ruin his mood, on the other hand Grantaire did seem to be bleeding out. Grantaire couldn’t be bothered to expend any energy on talking but let out a groan to fill Enjolras in. 

  
  


Enjolras looked at Grantaire properly. The man’s face was pale and clammy. That’s when he saw the damp, dark patch spreading at his side. Enjolras took in a breath and looked back up, meeting Grantaire’s eyes. 

‘So the cardboard didn’t do that much actually’ What Enjolras presumed to be a huff or a snort turned into another groan of pain. 

The noise sent a chill up his spine. Grantaire was hurt. Grantaire was always hurt from bar-fights and the like but now,  _ Grantaire was hurt. _

‘Shit. What happened. Grantaire? How bad?’ Enjolras took off his friend’s jacket carefully. Then delicately attempted to peel of the blood-soaked cardboard vest. Every time it looked like Grantaire was in too much pain, and ready to pass out, Enjolras stopped. He was weak, he just squeezed Grantaire’s hand until the wave of pain seemed to ease up. Eventually Enjolras managed to get Grantaire bare-chested, he had a clear view of the wound. The bullet had gone straight through, even managing to stay outside of his ribs. That was the good news. But Enjolras suspected broken ribs and maybe even a ruptured artery- he guessed that from the amount of blood. Enjolras folded Grantaire’s shirt loosely around the other man’s hand and, placing his own hands above Grantaire’s, pressed down upon the wound. 

They stayed like that for minutes or maybe hours before it seemed like the blood flow had somewhat subsided. 

‘Keep your hands there. Tightly. I’ll call Combeferre to come and get us’

Grantaire listened, how could he not? He’d dreamed about being shirtless in an enclosed space with Enjolras before but bleeding out in a public toilet from the goddamn 80s hadn’t been exactly what he had wanted. He wanted to tell Enjolras that it was okay. It really didn’t matter and that he should be glad that Grantaire was going to die for a cause after all. But his tongue was heavy and Enjolras was on the phone. There really wasn’t much space. Grantaire was effectively sitting on the toilet, and Enjolras was standing over him, one arm leaning on the wall ahead. Am I a cause now? Grantaire wondered. The Enjolras on the phone seemed to be just as beautiful, just as tense, and fervent as the Enjolras at the protest had been. He wanted to hear what Combeferre was saying on the phone, whether he was breaking it to Enjolras that Grantaire would die in a public toilet and a lift wasn’t really necessary, unless it was from a coroner's. 

No. Combeferre was just as fucking hopeful as the rest of them- logic be damned. 

But Grantaire could feel his ribs, feel broken off pieces of them scraping bone against bone. He could feel his shirt dampen under his hand, first hot and then cold. He let his grip of his shirt weaken and let it drop to the floor. Enjolras didn’t see.

There were worse ways to go. He could die staring at Enjolras. He didn’t believe in heaven but if any angel was going to lead him towards oblivion then it might as well have been him. Enjolras, beautiful Enjolras- desperate and frantic and red faced. Grantaire closed his eyes and looked at Enjolras again. 

Grantaire wanted to die, God knows he wanted to die but he looked at Enjolras again, desperate on the phone to Combeferre. Suddenly things appeared much clearer. 

Not like this. Enjolras was desperate. Grantaire wouldn’t be so rude as to impose his death upon Enjolras like this.

He couldn't reach the shirt he’d dropped but brushed his hand against Enjolras’, as a means to get his attention. 

  
  


‘Yeah?’ Enjolras looked over at Grantaire. ‘Crap. You dropped it? It’s gotta be dirty now. Here’ Enjolras placed his phone in the sink and removed his t-shirt, again folding it over Grantaire's hand and holding it over the wound. ‘Seriously hold it tight there, okay?’ Enjolras’ voice was shaking.  _ That _ scared Grantaire. Enjolras was scared, and he was usually so sure of everything. 

 

Enjolras spoke a few more words to ‘Ferre on the phone and crouched down, so he was at eye-level with Grantaire. 

‘He’s coming. He’s going to come as soon as possible but I uh-’ Enjolras looked down momentarily ‘There’s road-blocks so he won’t be here for another hour at least. And um, we can’t leave without a car. The chance of being spotted is too risky and besides I don’t think you should be walking’. Oh God now Grantaire was worried. Any calm he’d gotten from the blood loss was gone and now he could see so vividly how scared Enjolras was. Scared for him. 

Grantaire didn’t want to think about that too much, Enjolras would be worried for anyone, he hated Grantaire, wanted him out of the group. He was just kind enough to not want him dead. 

‘Okay. It’ll be okay Apollo don’t worry’ Grantaire cleared his throat and instantly regretted it when there was another sharp pain from his side. ‘I’ll be okay. Sometimes I think I’m incapable of dying.’ he let out a small grin and Enjolras smiled back, trying to hide how worried he was that he could see blood on his teeth.

 

Grantaire’s hold on Enjolras’ t-shirt began to slip, unintentionally this time, and Enjolras had to place his own hands over Grantaire’s. 

‘Come on R, you have to stay awake. Tell me something. A story, or- or tell me why this protest has been such an utter and total failure. What did I do wrong? Come on Grantaire, just rant at me you have to keep talking’. 

Enjolras was an orator, he knew how weak and scared he sounded but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to seem like he knew what he was doing, to reassure Grantaire, but the thought of him dying, terrified him. Luckily, Grantaire responded nonetheless.

He talked a little, but after some time his words were slurring more and more and his sentences were starting to trail off. 

Enjolras noticed and, keeping one hand on Grantaire’s side, held his other hand tightly. Willing, begging, that Combeferre would get there quickly and everything would be okay. 


	5. Violence will get you nowhere this time chum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from Grantaire getting shot, theres hurt, not much comfort- although Eponine is a babe and takes none of Grantaire's shit. (This chapter hasn't been beta'd and I'm v. bad at proof reading so if anyone sees a mistake I didn't see I'd really appreciate it if you let me know in the comments)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long! Some serious family stuff happened this autumn and I haven't been super motivated to write. Anyway, I hope you like this and leave a comment if you do!

Combeferre managed to get there quicker than he thought and parked as close to Enjolras and Grantaire as he could. All the same, Grantaire would probably have to be carried. Bahorel had made it out with nothing more than a broken nose, and had run to safety with Gavroche on his shoulders and Eponine by his side. Once they were in Combeferre’s flat, he had been enlisted. He jumped out of Combeferre’s car barely before it had even stopped moving and ran up the road to the dank toilet cubicle. ‘Ferre jogged up to join him and rapped sharply on the door, hissing Enjolras’ name. 

The door slid open slowly and Bahorel winced.

Enjolras was crouched on the dirty floor, shirtless, with blood covered hands clenched like a vice over Grantaire’s side. 

Grantaire himself was barely clinging to consciousness and hazily watching Enjolras through half-lidded eyes. 

 

‘Will he be okay? Does he need a hospital?’ 

 

Combeferre shook his head and Enjolras’ eyes widened. He noticed that his hands were shaking.

 

‘No sorry, I mean he- he’ll be okay. He doesn’t need a hospital. He should be fine with what I have set up at the flat.’ At this Enjolras slowly let out a shaky breath. 

 

‘He doesn’t need a transfusion? I’m an O, if- if he needs it’

 

‘No, saline should be fine. He looks like he’s lost…’, Combeferre squinted at the blood slowly pooling on the floor, ‘ one and a half litres. He’ll need rest, but he’ll be alright.’

 

Bahorel stepped forward and helped Enjolras up. ‘Let’s go.’

 

The two men lifted Grantaire, each arm around one of their shoulders and painstakingly made their way back towards the car. Grantaire placed one heavy foot in front of another, letting himself be half-dragged. His side burned worse with each breath but he made sure to smile at Enjolras and give Bahorel a pathetic pat on the arm as thanks. 

 

Inside Combeferre’s car he was lain across the back, with his head on Enjolras’ lap. He had a fresh towel, courtesy of Combeferre and held it against the injury.

 

‘I would have brought bandages here but I want to make sure the wound’s properly cleaned first at mine.’ Combeferre’s eyes didn’t once leave the road, but Grantaire noticed a slight tremor in his hands as they gripped the steering wheel. It surprised him, Combeferre was a doctor, not much could unsteady his hands.

 

Whilst Enjolras was updated by Combeferre and Bahorel, Grantaire tried to focus his eyes on a bug outside the window, A fly? There was condensation on the inside of the window. He wanted to wipe it off, look outside. Draw a smiley face like he did when he was younger. Behind the fog on the windows he could just about see trees and non-descript buildings. It was hot in the car. Combeferre had the heating on, the hot air was drying out his nose, he twitched it experimentally. He could smell metal. It was like being drunk, blood-loss. It felt like the car was spinning slowly, if he closed his eyes he imagined that he could feel the world turn on its axis. 1,140 miles per hour, spinning again, and again, and again.

 

Words filtered through to Grantaire. Everyone was safe and in various flats, many at Combeferre’s. It seemed that apart from minor injuries, Grantaire was the only one hurt. He almost snorted, and he’d wanted to stay at home. He could feel Enjolras’ thighs beneath his head, his left leg bounced up and down erratically and Grantaire shifted his head.

 

‘Sorry’, Enjolras replied, looking down at Grantaire with something close to guilt in his eyes, ‘I’m a bit nervous’. There was blood on his collar and neck.

 

Grantaire closed his eyes and smiled weakly, ‘Don’t worry about it’. It was hard to enjoy all of this. He should have, Grantaire was physically closer to Enjolras than he’d ever been before, but it was like a last meal before execution. He’d get patched up by Combeferre, and then he’d go. Like Enjolras had said the night before. He had helped, like he had been ordered to, and now it was over. Grantaire closed his eyes and tried to focus on the sound of his friends talking. 

 

The car was pulling up to Combeferre’s flat block now and once again Grantaire was being pulled out of the car door and hauled to his feet. Stumbling, stuttering footsteps took him into the lift, which Combeferre’s block of flats, thankfully, had. The lift was overly bright and Grantaire glanced his reflection in the mirror. Why did lifts always have mirrors? Grantaire had never considered himself attractive, by no means, but at that moment he thought that he had never looked worse. He was ashen and had dark purple bruises littered under his eyes. His naked torso, with only a towel held firmly to his side was gaunt, his blood-stained ribs straining against his skin. 

He hadn’t been eating very much recently but hadn't fully realised the effect it had had upon him until now. The worst thing was that he knew Combeferre had taken notice and would probably have ‘a talk’ with him later. Grantaire didn’t care that he’d been shot, not really, what was one more injury after all? It was the fact that he had suddenly been put under the spotlight, he felt as if all his friends were staring at him, seeing the things he didn’t want to show anyone. He was vulnerable, forced to look to others for help. He hated it.

 

Combferre’s front door was thankfully not too far down the corridor, and as soon as the door was opened Grantaire could hear the chaos caused by his arrival. Enjolras and Bahorel hauled Grantaire up onto Combeferre’s kitchen table which had already been cleared and presumably, by the smell of things, disinfected. Grantaire winced as his side touched the table. Straight away, ever the true professional, Combeferre began to get his medical equipment and work upon Grantaire.  Within a few minutes he was hooked up to a saline IV and his wound had been cleaned and dressed. The cleaning had hurt, though it wasn’t that bad compared to getting shot, but the IV needle had been fine. Grantaire was used enough to needles. Although Joly was the better doctor, Combeferre always having been more interested in research, Grantaire preferred Combeferre’s calmness. Joly, though perfect in the clinic, would have been especially worried around Grantaire, all fumbling fingers and jittery, nervous chatter. What he needed was silence.

 

Unfortunately as Marius was there that would not last long. As soon as ‘Ferre was finished dressing Grantaire’s injury, who was still lying on the table connected to the IV, he allowed the others to come near him- seemingly ignoring the pleading in Grantaire’s eyes.

 

‘What happened?!’ Marius, foolish and caring as always, asked the obvious questions.

 

‘I was mauled by a bear. What do you think happened?’

 

‘Yes but I mean how?’ Marius brushed over Grantaire’s deadpan. 

 

‘By a guard. Who else?’ Enjolras retorted angrily. Marius jumped, startled from Enjolras’ sudden entrance- the man had come from Ferre’s bathroom, where he’d washed himself and put on a fresh jumper, silently. Marius tensed a little. Grantaire had forgiven Enjolras for what he’d said the previous night the moment he’d said it, forgiven and understood. It seemed like Marius had not yet done the same.

 

In fact, it looked like Marius was about to confront Enjolras, albeit in his own shaky, nervous way.

 

‘Hey Marius. Did you see that nurse at the protest?’ Grantaire’s voice was hoarse and Marius looked at him with slight confusion.

‘She was blonde, spoke well, very pretty. She was 100% your type you must have seen her?’

Marius turned light pink beneath his freckles, either because he realised what Grantaire was doing or because he actually had seen the pretty nurse, Grantaire didn’t know.

Enjolras had walked over to where Combeferre was watching the tv with Gavroche and stared at the screen. Marius turned to the kettle and began to make a pot of tea angrily, or at least as angry as Marius  _ could _ be. It seemed like the situation had been temporarily diffused. Grantaire didn’t want any argument, really it wasn’t worth the trouble,  _ he  _ wasn’t worth the trouble.

 

‘If you’re making tea, I’ll have a coffee’. Eponine, who had been staring at Grantaire from the other side of the room for the last twenty minutes, walked over to the table where Grantaire was lying. Marius nodded and grabbed another mug. Grantaire, tired of being supine, propped himself up on one arm and swung his legs over the edge of the table so that he was half sitting up. ‘Speaking of drinks, you don’t have anything do you?’ Grantaire called out to Combeferre. He lightly pressed his hand to his, now bandaged, side. ‘You know, for the pain’. 

Combeferre scoffed, ‘Because alcohol is notoriously good for blood loss. Have another paracetamol and shut up’.

 

‘You know’, Grantaire replied, ‘Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired’. Grantaire felt a hand press into his, Eponine had brought him another two tablets and a glass of water. 

‘Cheers nurse’.

Eponine smirked and jumped lightly onto the table, to sit by him. 

‘You’re a fucking idiot’.

 

‘I’m sure you’re correct, but why? And be gentle with me’, Grantaire put a hand over his heart, ‘I’m feeling quite tender at the moment’.’

 

‘How the hell did you get shot? Sure they’re happy to beat you for nothing but even a guard would need an excuse to shoot you like this’. 

 

Shit, Grantaire thought, Eponine looked mad, and she certainly hadn’t listened to his request to be gentle. He decided to come clean, even if it would invoke her wrath further.

 

‘I may, possibly, have punched a guard in the face’.

 

Eponine leant forward and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Of fucking course you did.’ She looked up at him and Grantaire was surprised to not see any anger on her face, just resignation. ‘Why do you always do this? Why do you provoke every single thing?’

 

Grantaire looked down at the black and white checked floor and shrugged. He thought he could see some drops of blood on the linoleum. 

 

*

That night, as much as he protested and begged for the sofa, Grantaire was delegated to Combeferre’s bed. As the day drew to a close, everyone started to make their way home- as safely as they could. Eponine said that she would stay with Grantaire during the night, so that Combeferre could get a proper night’s rest without worrying over his patient. Gavroche was enticed with the promise of dvd’s and sweets to go home with Bahorel, Bossuet and Musichetta. The latter hugged Eponine as they left and whispered something in her ear, to which Eponine nodded.

 

‘The protest was brill, wasn’t it?’ Gavroche told Grantaire just before he left.

 

‘Yeah, well mostly’ Grantaire smiled. He was so relieved that the boy was okay. He had been against him even being there but knew that nothing he said would make a difference. Gavroche answered to nobody but himself, and sometimes Eponine. 

 

‘It was so cool! Bahorel ran over to us and he pushed a guard out the way! I sat on his shoulders and he ran with me and Ep until we were out. It was like a movie!’

 

It had been like a movie, and as much as his side hurt- especially before the painkillers had kicked in- he could appreciate the melodrama. 

 

‘Yeah. I’ll see you later mate, okay? Tell me all about what movie you guys watch tomorrow.’

 

Gavroche nodded and ran off behind Musichetta as she left.

 

Grantaire sighed and walked to Combeferre’s bedroom to get changed, the doctor had loaned him the use of his spare pyjamas. Grantaire, grateful as he was, was slightly incredulous as he put them on- who the hell had  _ spare _ pyjamas?!

 

He winced as he lifted his arms to put the t shirt on, really wishing he’d asked Eponine for help. Still, once the clothes were on and he was lying under the covers of Combeferre’s bed, having swallowed another couple painkillers, the injury was all but forgotten.

 

He could smell Combeferre in the sheets, somewhere between dust and cologne. The thought that in a few days, once he was okay to go home, he’s never see the doctor again almost brought tears to his eyes. It was stupid of him, he knew for a fact they’d be better off without him, hadn’t today shown that?  _ He’d _ been the one to get hurt.  _ He’d _ been the liability. He was the one Enjolras wanted to go.

 

Grantaire pushed the palms of his hands into his closed eyes and kept applying pressure until he could see stars, it reminded him of Jehan. He had been doing this for about a minute when Eponine came in, carrying two mugs of tea. She put one down on the table beside Grantaire and held the other in two hands as she sat crossed-legged next to Grantaire on the bed. 

 

She stared at her mug for a few moments before looking up at Grantaire. She looked serious.

 

‘Tell me what’s going on’.

 

Grantaire blinked heavily. “I’ve been shot’.

 

‘Grantaire’.

 

He picked up the mug and took a small sip, it was too hot. Something twisted in his stomach. ‘Me and Marius stayed at the Musain last night’.

 

‘I gathered’.

 

‘Enjolras stranded him there basically’.

 

‘You have a car, why couldn’t you take him home? Or yourself for that matter?’

 

‘I refused. I sat on the floor, drank, and painted’. The self-loathing dripped from his words like tar. ‘Enjolras and I, well we had a bit of a row’. At this Grantaire grimaced. The understatement was clear.

 

Eponine sighed. She assumed this had happened. After making sure Grantaire was lying down, Enjolras had barely talked to the other man.

 

‘What about?’

 

Grantaire let out a huff of breath, ‘Well, me mostly. About how I’m useless, treat ‘the cause’ like shit. That kind of thing’.

 

‘Jesus’.

 

‘Oh there’s more. After today, but I guess after I’m healed up now, I have to leave the group’.

 

Eponine’s face paled a little, but her eyes started burning. Her voice went very quiet, ‘Are you fucking serious?’

 

‘I get it, you know. It’s shit and all but he’s not wrong. You’d all be better off if I didn’t get in the way all the time’. Grantaire lifted his mug and gulped down the still too hot tea.

 

‘He’s a bastard.’ Eponine put her mug away and lay down, on her back, beside Grantaire.

 

‘No he’s not.’

 

She turned her face to look Grantaire in the eye, warm brown meeting opaque green. ‘Yes, he is. Or at least he was last night. You know we need you right?’

 

Grantaire turned his face away from her. ‘Yeah right’.

 

‘You’re my best friend. You mean more to me than the  _ fucking cause _ ’. Eponine reached under the covers and grabbed Grantaire’s hand. ‘Listen to me okay? Just listen. I realise I’m not Enjolras and you aren’t in love with me and everything I do-’

 

Grantaire flinched and turned back to look at her, incredulous.

 

Eponine almost wanted to laugh. ‘You think I don’t know? Of course I know, you moron. Shut up and listen. I  _ know  _ I’m not Enjolras, but I love you and I need you here’.

 

Grantaire’s throat was thick and there was a burning sensation at the bridge of his nose. He nodded. It took a minute for him to clear his throat and answer, and even then it was scratchy and hoarse.

 

‘I love you too’.

 

‘Good. Now please get some rest, I mean Jesus you were shot! This isn’t Die hard Grantaire!’ Eponine got under the covers and kicked around until she was suitably comfy. ‘Good night, try not to spoon me’.

  
Grantaire turned back to face the wall. A small smile played on his lips, he did love Eponine, but it died down almost as soon as it had appeared. He couldn’t wait until he had healed, it would hurt too much to stay any longer. He’d have to go that night.


	6. poems will not really buy beer or flowers or a goddam thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one has taken so long. I really hope you like it! Please, please comment. I don't have a beta atm and I'd really appreciate some criticism (or praise if you like!)
> 
> Also- exams went well, as did results, and I got into Oxford uni to do English lit and Classics!!

Grantaire didn’t sleep that night. The pain in his side was dulled by painkillers but still too present for any comfort. Besides, he had to leave some time that night, or rather morning. He’d go home, drink probably, lock his door, and Enjolras and the rest would never have to see him again. 

Of course, Grantaire knew he was being stupid, not everyone wanted him gone. Eponine had just said so and Grantaire had believed her. The issue was not whether he was wanted, but whether he was good for his friends. He failed them again and again and he would only bring them down with him. They were all about causes and he had been a lost cause for a long time. He was a dead weight tied to their ankles. It was far better to cut off ties now, sooner rather than later.

It was 3am when he was sure Eponine was fully asleep. He got up carefully from the bed and, supporting himself on the walls, tiptoed to the kitchen. He could see Combeferre sleeping on the leather sofa in the living room, he looked tired. Grantaire had wasted their time, forcing them to look after him when real work needed to be done. There was a pen and some post-it notes on the counter, Grantaire tried to be as quiet as he could whilst he scrawled out a message:

_Going home. Don’t follow, I’ll be fine. Focus on what needs to be done._ -R

With that done, Grantaire crept to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the corridor- slowly shutting the door behind him.

After that it was pretty simple, Combeferre only lived around a half hour walk from Grantaire’s flat. He wasn’t in much shape to walk but for the most part ignored how much his side hurt. He’d take more painkillers when he got home. 

Once he was home he took a few more painkillers, and a shot of vodka- maybe now he could sleep. The painkillers, or was it the vodka? Further dulled the pain in his side. It seemed almost a lifetime ago he had been shot, centuries since Enjolras had asked- no _told_ him to leave the group. Grantaire, hunched over slightly so as not to pull his stitches, walked over to his bed and lay down on his back. Luckily it wasn’t that far from the kitchen to the bed in his shitty studio flat. 

Eyes closed, he felt as if the bed was lightly swaying. He tried to keep his mind blank so he could sleep but came to no such luck. Thoughts of Enjolras and Eponine and Jehan and Marius crept back into his head again and again. Everytime he felt himself starting to fall asleep he’d jolt back awake with a sudden pain in his side and a ringing in his ears. It was almost 5am when he got out of bed and decided to do what he usually did when he needed to calm down, paint.

In the corner of his room was a half finished painting of some landscape or another- nothing special, just the kind of stuff Grantaire would hawk on the street when funds were particularly low. He dipped a one inch brush into a small tub of ochre paint and dabbed it onto the sketched out sun in the top left of the canvas. 

Grantaire loved painting. He was good at it, and he wasn’t good at much else- his father had always reminded him of that. More than that though, it could stop his brain from running a mile a minute, going from one problem or thought to the next. It could make him just stop and forget for a while and become lost in whatever he was painting. But as Grantaire began to mix some yellow with a little red, just to deepen the sun he was taken out of a lonely field in Surrey to a filthy one room flat in London. Red. Red on his, his, hands as he was trying to stop the bleeding even though Grantaire would have happily, or at least without complaint, died on the floor of a public outdoor toilet. Red. Couldn’t Enjolras just let him paint? Did he have to take fucking colours away from him?

_He doesn’t hate me._ The thought was not comforting. _He’s apathetic about me, couldn’t care less. Thinks I’m a useless piece of shit too below his radar to even acknowledge._ Any calm he might have felt from painting was gone and he felt something squeeze around his chest.  
Grantaire took a swig from the bottle of red wine beside his stool- he couldn’t remember if he had brought it with him or if it had always been there. He had stopped trying to finish the painting, just hitting the canvas with his paintbrush, trying to feel something. It wasn’t working. The canvas was now getting close to saturated and fat drops of paint were slowly making their way down to the already stained floor. Red and gold and green and black. The colours didn’t even go together. Grantaire splashed some more black on heavily. A little sprang back from the brush and hit him just above the jaw. _One more drink._  
It was morning now, but still pitch black. The sky was visible from the small window behind the canvas and Grantaire could see the darkness pressing opaquely against the glass. The bottle was finished before long and another took its place, he couldn’t remember how that one had got there either. He barely holding it together, who would have thought that being shot would have been the highlight of the last couple days. He remembered laying his head in Enjolras’ lap, wondering if he’d die; it had been glorious. Now, he was alone in his pokey flat drinking wine and failing at the one thing he had ever been good at.  
Enjolras and the rest of his friends would be at another meeting soon, Grantaire didn’t expect to be missed.   
Now he splashed on more red. The canvas was a mess. Grantaire took another drink before dropping the paintbrush and placing his hand on the canvas. _You can’t even paint. If you can’t paint you have nothing and you can’t paint._ He put the other palm on the canvas and with both hands started swirling the paint around, mixing it all until the entire canvas was a muddy, dark brown. His thoughts were getting more and more blurry and Grantaire was starting to regret drinking so much combined with all the painkillers. Still though he couldn’t get the thought of Enjolras telling him to leave out of his mind. He knew the group would be better off without him but still, he didn’t want to go. His friends were all he had. All of a sudden Grantaire stopped being so understanding and forgiving He reached down and dipped his hands in the ochre tub, it was a waste, and the tin was now ruined. With bright yellow hands, Grantaire punched the canvas lightly, _Fuck you,_ it held and yellow paint splattered across it. Grantaire punched it again harder and it still held. _Fuck you Enjolras._ He leaned down to take another swig from the bottle and this time punched even harder. The canvas split and some yellow paint flung from his fist and onto the window, there went his deposit. _I love you and you fucking bastard you’re making me leave, I don’t want to leave._

He could feel dampness at his side and was panting heavily from the exertion when his phone buzzed from the floor. Grantaire could see what the message said from where he was sitting.  
_‘Where are you?!’_  
It was Eponine. He didn’t feel like calling her because he knew exactly what she would say: Something, something, you need to talk to Enjolras about how you feel. Blah blah, come back you just got shot.  
Eponine deserved better than him as a friend, he was ungrateful, unrelenting in his self-loathing. She deserved someone who would look after _her_ , someone who would make _her_ happy. As it was all they did together, when not keeping an eye on the kids, was complain. Eponine about Marius and Grantaire about, well, everything- but more often than not Enjolras.  
Grantaire stared at the message on the phone until the screen went black. He wasn’t going to call her. She hated it when he was this drunk.  
Instead Grantaire emptied his third bottle before smashing the end of it against the side of his stool. With the jagged, glassy green end, Grantaire ripped the canvas so it was completely ruined. Nothing but brown and yellow flaps dangling from a frame. It looked diseased.  
He wasn’t thinking straight, the alcohol had left Grantaire completely numb but in his haze he did remember something he’s heard once, maybe back when he was still studying art, back when he could still see some kind of a future for himself.Something about how Vincent Van Gogh had eaten yellow paint in a desperate effort to get the happiness inside him. Impulsively, Grantaire dipped his index finger in the tin and stuck it inside his mouth. It was disgusting, of course, and he certainly didn’t feel any happier. But then, Van Gogh hadn’t either. Grantaire suddenly wished he was able buy a revolver in England- even if Enjolras would be horrified and rant about how we aren’t Americans. Grantaire picked up a tea spoon that he had left on the floor from some earlier mug of tea and lifted the tin of paint onto his lap. The sky was still completely dark, not even stars or clouds could be seen. It felt like everything else in the universe was gone and all that was left was Grantaire and his tiny room. Using the spoon, Grantaire began shoveling more and more paint into his mouth, and after a while it didn’t taste so awful, the alcohol had already deadened his taste buds.  
This lasted for about a minute before Grantaire fell off the stool onto his hands and knees and started vomiting heavily. Yellow paint, wine, bile, and not much else came out of his mouth. The cramping in his stomach was unbearable and there was a flaring pain in his side, he couldn’t remember why. After a while the heaving stopped and Grantaire shuffled backwards, so that he was out of the way of the pool of vomit, before falling backwards onto his back.  
Wine hadn’t made him feel better, or painting, or even the yellow paint. Grantaire wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and a saw a smudge of yellow appear. God, he was pathetic. He tilted his head to the side and saw on the floor beside him the broken wine bottle. He stared at it for a while, seeing his own eyes reflected back in the thick green of the glass. The only things he lived for were painting and his friends, and in only a few days he had lost both. Enjolras wanted him gone, and no matter how many times Grantaire disagreed with the man he was right about this, Grantaire should be gone. Still lying on his back, he lightly traced his index finger around the jagged circumference of the bottle.   
Grantaire pushed his finger into one point, applying more pressure until he felt the skin break, like a seal, under the glass. Lifting his hand in front of his face Grantaire stared at the tip of his finger as a small bubble of blood began to well up, before bursting and running a little red trail down his finger. He picked the bottle up and lifted it to his other arm, pale under layers of paint. Placing the sharpest point of the bottle just below his wrist he languidly ran the point across. He did it horizontally, as a sort of test. He passed, and just as he was about to run the bottle down his arm again, this time with more vehemence, there was a knock at the door. The knock drew Grantaire out of his reverie and he let the bottle drop down to the floor.  
His stomach ached, and his side hurt, and his mind was blurry, and his arm stung, but using his stool to steady himself, Grantaire propped himself up and shuffled the few steps to the door. Leaning against the wall beside it Grantaire opened the latch, not bothering to open the door properly, before dropping down to the floor. The cut on his arm wasn’t particularly deep but a few trails of blood ran down his forearm to rest in a little pool in the palm of his hand.  
Grantaire closed his eyes, swaying a little from side to side- probably because of the wine.  
There was a creak as the door opened and a cautious ‘Grantaire…?’.  
The voice was softer. More nervous than usual but Grantaire would have recognised it anywhere.  
‘Enjolras. Why are you here?’ His eyes were still closed and his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. A small crease appeared on his forehead, just above his nose.  
Enjolras stepped through and closed the door behind him. There was a stillness in the room, as if he was about to say something but all of a sudden Grantaire felt Enjolras stiffen and heard a short intake of breath.  
‘What have you done?’  
‘Nothing much’, _and isn’t that the truth_. Grantaire’s eyes were still closed, he didn’t think he could bear looking at Enjolras right now.  
Enjolras sunk down to his knees across from Grantaire and reached for his left arm. As well as the one red line there were silvery, circular marks across his forearm.  
‘Grantaire?’ Enjolras took another breath, slow and drawn out. ‘Did you do this?’ Enjolras put his other arm on Grantaire’s right shoulder. It stopped his swaying, kept him steady.  
Grantaire’s eyelashes fluttered and his eyes opened, revealing bloodshot eyes. ‘Some of them, some are older- 20 years or so.’ He smiled a little, it was watery and Enjolras had no idea how to react. He was terrible at being comforting, and this was Grantaire. He was awful when talking to Grantaire at the best of times. There was a sharp pang in his chest as he understood the implications of what Grantaire had just said and his grip on the man’s left arm tightened.  
Enjolras looked into Grantaire’s flat, it was disgustingly filthy and filled with art supplies and paintings. Large canvases bordered the walls and featured ethereal portraits of all the amis, Enjolras most of all. There was a bed in one corner with a thin blanket on top of it, assumedly where Grantaire slept. He looked to Grantaire’s most recent canvas, it was destroyed, and covered with splatters of yellow paint. On the floor beneath it was a puddle of vomit and a spilled tin of yellow paint. Enjolras looked back at Grantaire.  
‘What have you had?’ his voice had taken on a tone of urgency now.  
‘Wine, of course.’  
‘Anything else?’  
‘Yellow paint.’ Grantaire’s voice had become infinitely smaller and in an almost childlike voice he said, ‘I thought it might make me happy’.  
Enjolras swallowed and looked into Grantaire’s eyes. ‘Okay. Do you want me to call Joly? Combeferre? Anyone else?’  
Grantaire shook his head. He wanted to think of something witty to say, anything to say really. He wanted to tell Enjolras to leave him alone. Instead he just leaned forwards so that his forehead pressed into Enjolras’ shoulder and much against his better judgement started to cry.  



End file.
